Doina
Ruști

Rome

As soon as you step out of Fiumicino, you’re struck by the tranquil air of Rome. It’s not something measurable by science, but rather an ozone nourished by thousands of sighs. From afar, the sea breathes, the sun caresses everything, and on the streets the May roses are in bloom. The Principessa Isabella Hotel stands not far from the Borghese Gardens, an old building with thick walls and a small terrace for each room. Mine was adorned with oleanders, making it look like a patio—especially since, beyond it, the mysterious walls of another building rose. From here, Via Veneto descends, guarded by ancient plane trees. Walking down, you hardly notice when you reach the Trevi Fountain, where I refrained from throwing another coin—after all, last year I left plenty of wishes there.

In a bend of the Tiber (or Tevere, as the locals say) lies Casa delle Letterature. The building, opening onto Piazza dell’Orologio, may seem modest at first glance, yet its artistic value is undeniable. Inside, in an inner garden, dozens of young people read scattered among the shrubs, while in the surrounding rooms, conversations about books unfold.

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I arrived there for such a meeting. The Bellonci Foundation had invited three Romanian writers: Mircea Cărtărescu, H. R. Patapievici, and… me. At first, I thought it would be just another formal event, but things took a surprisingly warm turn. The readers—mostly high-school students from several Roman lyceums—were well prepared, as they had received our books two months earlier. Their questions were precise, and the organizer himself, Stefano Petrocchio, was a man of letters: tall, courteous, radiating the patient elegance of a nineteenth-century gentleman. I liked him instantly. Gradually, the corridors filled up too, for besides the official audience, professors, master’s students, Romanian scholarship holders, students from Sapienza University, representatives of the Accademia di Romania, and members of the press appeared.

For me, the most surprising participant was Carlo Pulsoni, the distinguished professor of Romance languages at the University of Perugia, who came especially to meet me. I still regret not telling him how happy that made me.

The discussion touched on Cărtărescu’s Nostalgia, Patapievici’s interpretation of Dante’s world, and Zogru, the central figure of my eponymous novel.

Oana Boșca, from the University of Bucharest, interpreted between Romanian and Italian.

But a literary journey is never confined to a crowded room. Outside, on the streets of Rome (photo 2)—along its ancient walls, in the small shops with such thick stone that phones lost their signal—everywhere, really, the small, perpetual wonders of travel unfolded.

Almost as memorable as meeting Stefano Petrocchio was my first night in Rome. I don’t know what the other writers did; I met Magda Nica, a painter and jewelry designer, who took me to MoDerna, a bohemian trattoria frequented by artists, many from the film world—among them, it’s said, even Woody Allen. The restaurant’s main attraction is its personalized menu. The chef, naturally, is an artist himself—and a Romanian. His name is Liviu Dotcos. He prepared sixteen different dishes for me, most of them vegetarian or with tender veal, delicate little rolls of swordfish among them. But before cooking, he studied me carefully—his analysis had begun already at lunch.

The huge plane trees, the streets broken by stairs, the piazzas like air bubbles, and, of course, the company of Elena Postelnicu with her recorder filled my second day in Rome. And now, looking back, I immediately recall the city’s sounds, the men in black jackets, and the bookshop windows gleaming with Niccolò Ammaniti’snovels.

Turin

The Salone del Libro di Torino is the warmest of all book fairs. This year, Romania was the guest country of honor—and it was here that I launched L’omino rosso.

The Romanian stand was all in black and white—sophisticated in its simplicity, with no author posters or book covers. On the asymmetrical walls, only three words could be read: Romania and Humanitas Bookshops. The organization was impressive: press (Pro TV International, TVR, Radio Actualități, Agerpres), the Department of Italian from the University of Bucharest, the elegant and tireless director of the Romanian Cultural Institute, H. R. Patapievici, who never left the stand, and the organizers from the Venice branch of ICR, including the indefatigable Mihai Stan—a man capable of coordinating a hundred things at once. Everything looked truly worthy of an honorary guest nation.

My important day was Friday. In the fair’s huge bustle, I caught sight of Paolo Giordanofor a few moments—the Premio Strega laureate, already a celebrated prose writer, surrounded by fans calling his name, thrilled to see him in the flesh. I stopped too, staring: Paolo is very young and Shakespearean. Later I met Marco Cugno, the well-known professor from Turin, the soul of Romanian events every year. Formal, kind, and generous, he always reminds me of that stable and fragrant corner of the world. He came to the launch of The Little Red Man (L’omino rosso) (photos 3, 4).

This year, Romania’s stand had a sort of pavilion—actually a spacious hall decorated with portraits of the participating authors and equipped with projection gear. All Romanian events took place there. L’omino rosso had already found its way into the hands of Marco Dotti, in the height of his verve. Dotti, a journalist for Il Manifesto and professor of comparative literature at the University of Pavia, did not open the discussion—the publisher, Sabina Trzan, did, followed by Roberto Merlo, the book’s translator and professor at the University of Turin. Only after them did Dotti launch into his commentary, whose generous appreciation moved me deeply.

Of course, book launches are always full of praise—it would have been abnormal not to feel happy. My guests were evidently intrigued by the novel’s theme of virtual worlds, and my confession that I had actually married the hacker from the story caused a ripple of laughter, even becoming the title of a news piece.

The surprise of the launch was a group of avant-garde literary journalists from Milan. Drawn in by the book’s video trailer, they stayed for the presentation and interviewed me afterwards.

Later, I met Norman Manea, who said such beautiful words that they instantly silenced any speech of my own. In fact, the great writers, with their almost divine kindness, were the emblem of our stand—Mircea Cărtărescu attended nearly every event.

Outside the fair, Turin is a nearly tranquil city. Its squares are guarded by nineteenth-century buildings; its statues are scattered across elegant avenues; the Egyptian Museum—unmatched in Europe—and the Museum of Cinema are the first things that come to mind when I think of Turin. And there was one more sight: at metro stations and on huge outdoor billboards appeared, now and then, the image of the Romanian stand, marked “Guest Country of Honor.”

Some eighty thousand Romanians live in Turin, so it’s impossible to walk more than ten minutes without hearing your native language echoing through the streets.

Doina Ruști

This English version was translated and revised for international readers in 2025.

Originally published in Ziarul de Duminică (Romania)